Where is the fucking beauty?


Writing, it’s something I have always enjoyed doing. Possibly because it’s always been a natural ability. I’ve always been able to write.

I used to want to write a novel, one about a young girl, Mara (named after my best friend from 1st grade), and her dragon Corinth (characteristics based off my timid dog).

Those were my first well developed characters. I really loved them, and still do.

Rarely do I let myself sit down to write for pleasure anymore, my blog is a journal and so it’s less a pleasure and more of a necessity for my mental stability.

I’m trying to find what makes me happy, I’ve been lacking in happiness lately. I ran to my ex-boyfriend in hopes that he would bring happiness with him, but he didn’t have it. I’m looking at my music, does it make me happy?

Do the events I plan make me happy? What about taking drama? Does that? No, not really. Not even playing piano has been a happy-thing for me lately. So, what am I missing? I’m not entirely sure.

I may need to just slow down. Stop making myself feel guilty for sleeping in. Which, I do. I feel guilty when I’m not working. I feel like I am slacking, never giving myself down time.

Maybe I should slow down and see the beauty in life again.

Maybe that is it.


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